


The Village

by Maggie_Conagher



Series: Newlywed Blues [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Original Fiction, Religious Conflict
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 14:24:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maggie_Conagher/pseuds/Maggie_Conagher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm collecting all of the Village bits from Newlywed Blues into their own separate place. It might be a bit choppy since some of the transitions are in Mycroft's time. Eventually, I might refer readers here rather than including full excerpts within the plot of NB chapters. There is a slight possibility that I will fill in missing scenes and do the period research until this is a stand alone novel. Let me know if that appeals. </p>
<p>For new readers, the Village is a novel that my version of Mycroft Holmes is writing. His characters are closely based on his husband Greg Lestrade, John Watson, and his brother Sherlock. But the setting is the early 1900s in a small country village. Events and experiences from his own life sneak into his plot, and he and Greg often discuss his writing which is cathartic for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The New Vicar

The new vicar for Lawton was apprehensive throughout the long train ride. The grimy cold did not help. He would reach his destination at less than his best. Hunger gnawed as well, but his recent student days had taught him to ignore the desires of the flesh. Food was a pleasure and not for the likes of someone prone to portly. He wondered what his new parishioners would be like.

Late afternoon dark found him footsore from a three mile walk as there had been some miscommunication about his transport to the village. He could have waited until morning but he wanted to be somewhere under cover before full darkness. He stood at the end of the main street, watching people hurry in for their tea. The vicarage was at the opposite end, sturdy but not beautiful. Still the lamps had been lit and he trudged with his valise handle cutting into his hand until he stood before the dark green door and winced as his knuckles rapped the damp wood.

She was an angel, the Madonna in a lace cap. Mrs. Lester, the village doctor’s mother but most assuredly working for the joy of it not the need. “My son the doctor and proud as goes before a fall says, ‘Be sure and tell the young vicar that I support my mother and her persistence in working is her own notion.’ I took care of the last three vicars to put Graham through his schooling and I won’t have him putting on airs about it now.”

Young Michael Hume was stripped of his outer garments and seated beside the kitchen fire.

“We’ll get to the formal dining room tomorrow, but tonight you need a mother’s care, sir. And as a mother, I shall be wearing young Sherman Lock out with a whip for neglecting his duty. His mother wouldn’t have anyone else to go for the vicar and I told her he would have his nose buried in a book and forget. But he’s perfect in her eyes and the rest of us hold our tongues and clean up the mess. She needs to fix her eyes on God and off of a son that isn’t all he might be. Now then, builder’s tea to warm your heart and belly. The kettle’s always a-boiling in my kitchen.”

All had been measured in advance so the water was added to the sturdy pot which was promptly swaddled in a knitted cozy. “Kind sir, if you’d like to hold the pot while it steeps, it will heat you up proper while I see to your clothing. I’ll hang your coat before the study fire. We’re not careless with our funds, but you only get to see a place for the first time once and these rooms are a sight prettier when they’re warm.”

Michael was nodding but comprehending her words long after she had moved on from the room and the topic. Able to hear her chatter as warning like a bell on a cat, he hugged the pot too him, the warming wool of the cozy prompting happy nursery memories of mittens drying on the fender. The heat of the steeping tea easily penetrated his threadbare waistcoat and ancient shirt.  
She waddled back in. “Now sir, if you’ve warmed a bit, I shall fix your cuppa and then take your other coat.”

He enjoyed watching her chemist’s precision in preparing his cup, a squint and biting of the lip that perhaps her son employed in his surgery when making pills and potions.

“I’m giving you sugar and you shan’t complain. I’ve got to get enough on your bones for you not to blow away when that door opens. There’s biscuits too, fresh made this morning and only to comfort your stomach that a more sturdy meal is nigh. None of this plate on the lap business in here. You set this mug on the fender and I’m putting this extra chair here for your little table.”

She eased his coat off his shoulders and gave him a little pat. Then she bustled away. His mother had died when he was five and he had only distant memories of a gentle but wispy person who had never played with him. In his imagination, he always had a jolly mother like Mrs. Lester. Plump and accepting, she would not have minded her dress if her boy wanted to play ball or go for a nature walk especially if her poor boy’s father had died.

The tea was a surprisingly good blend, the likes of which he had only drank when invited to his professor’s home at the seminary. The biscuits were like none he had ever had. Three kinds, a short bread cinnamon with almonds, a little flat cake that was crisp on the outside and fluffy inside, and lastly a dear little frosted one in the shape of a fish with a little eye draw on. The butter cream frosting brought out the hint of orange zest in the batter. Three of each when he had only allowed himself one biscuit per day in his student lodgings. He tried to savor them but his stomach cramped with hunger, and he ate them all with abandon he would need to do penance for later.

Mrs. Lester entered the room, finally quiet. She took his plate and put the same amount of biscuits on again and held out her hand for his mug which she filled with more of the strengthening tea. Then she pulled a chair close, facing his. She retrieved a bit of knitting from her apron pocket. “I hope you won’t be offended, Mr. Hume, but we are a small village of simple people, and we love our vicar like he belongs to each and every family here. When Reverend Wilson died, we carried that loss like one of our sons had passed.”

Michael found that he had eaten two cookies while listening. He held his mug of tea to stay his hand, but one of the fish jumped into his outstretched fingers and thus to his mouth. Fortunately, no reply was expected. 

“Before John, we’d had older vicars near retirement. John was young and beautiful and happy. He made our village sing with new life. He was my second son.”

She dabbed at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief and Michael saw real tears instead of the crocodile sort he was used to from ladies. 

“I made him these slippers just before he got ill so he never had need of them, but if you could see your way to wear them, I’d be pleased. Not hand me downs but a welcome gift from him and from me. You can wear them in the evenings and I can dry and clean your boots before I go. Warm, dry feet will keep you well and with us a long time.”

She knelt to remove his boots, the mud staining her fingers. When he protested, she said that it was her honor and then tears ran down his cheeks at the servant’s heart, the washing of feet. She tutted at his thin and poorly mended socks and then the soft wool enveloped his feet with warmth. The biscuits had taken the edge from his hunger and he was finally warm after what seemed like months of chill. With the anxiety of the meeting over, she ceased the frantic chatter and turned her attention to his supper. In the warmth and silence, he dozed, imagining the flavor of the shepherd’s pie she had promised.

 

The new vicar had just been to visit David Tinsley, an old man who did odd jobs for meals. The old man was waiting for the doctor who was at a breach birth, the midwife calling him late in the proceedings because she couldn’t get the baby turned. 

Mr. Tinsley had a severe abscess from a deep axe cut. The man seemed glad of company and Michael had managed to keep his lunch down thus far in the stench of the hut which was not just from the infected foot. He tidied as much as he could to keep Mr. Tinsely distracted and to better the situation should he have to return.

Michael dreaded the appearance of the doctor who had taken an instant dislike to him. While Mrs. Lester assured him that the doctor’s cold and harsh manner was due to the loss of his friend Brother John, Michael still viewed the clipped tones and glares as personal rejection. He was terribly lonely, being accustomed to the classes and close supervision of the seminary.

A long while later, Michael stumbled from the tiny house, his long foot catching the threshold. The sun was bright and there was a stiff breeze, but all he could smell was infection and the fug of an unventilated hovel. He walked several steps breathing hard, his handkerchief pressed to his mouth, but Mrs. Lester’s good breakfast was soon on the ground and a bit of it splashed on his shoes. 

His first call with the village doctor and he’d puked like an infant. He would be mortified later, but now all he could do was take in small breaths that didn’t start the heaves going. The smell was all over him. He moved blindly away from the spot until a hand was on his shoulder. “Come over to the pump. At least the water’s clean.”

He was steadied and eased down to sit on the edge of the trough by the good doctor, who was stripping off his stained shirt. “A breech birth and an abscess, and the shirt Mother made me is not even fit for the rag bag.”

Michael’s bleary eyes were suddenly presented with an expanse of tan back, muscles cording as the doctor worked the pump. The water glittered like diamonds in the sun and Mr. Lester scooped handfuls over his chest and face before going to his bag. Out of its depths, he took a clean cotton towel. “My last, we’ll have to share.”

He dipped it into the cold water and handed it to Michael who rubbed at his clammy face. It had to be the nausea and the bright sun that he was so dizzy. It had nothing to do with the doctor’s bare chest, the damp hair glistening in the sun, the brown nipples erect from the cold water. Why would he be lightheaded from watching another man scrub himself with carbolic soap?

Michael did not think he could walk yet so he held the towel and watched as Mr. Lester worked the lather down each arm, the wet dark hair holding the suds until he pumped a stream over them, the muscles rippling again. He scrubbed at the back of his neck, and for a breath stopping moment, Michael feared or hoped that he would be pressed into service to scrub the man’s back.

Someone had spoken, and he looked up slack jawed into the sun, the healer’s face in shadow. Words were repeated and he still couldn’t understand. The doctor removed the towel from Michael’s hand and put the bar of soap there. Then he scooped water from the trough and moved the soap back and forth in Michael’s hands. His sturdy fingers were dark against Michael’s long pale ones. They worked in and out, cleaning the webbing, checking the nails, then all the way up to his wrists. 

Michael knew that his breathing was heavy and ragged. He prayed that would be attributed to his nausea. Mr. Lester pulled on his wrist and he stood somehow and was led to the pump where one bare arm brushed against him. Soon the icy water was flowing down his hands. He wanted to climb in and have that water all over him, making him clean, but it would not reach his mind, the dirtiest place of all. 

“You’re very flushed, vicar.” A hand reached up and touched his face, feeling his cheeks and forehead. 

They looked at each other; Michael’s blush creeping to his neck, a tic jittering at the corner of his mouth. It was happening again. If he didn’t look at the good doctor’s eyes, he would have to look at his chest where drops of water ran slowly down, begging to be stopped by a long pale finger. One droplet clung to the tip of a hardened brown nipple, and Michael bit at the inside of his cheek. He stared at the ground to break the spell, but when he looked up again, their gazes were still locked. For just a moment, the doctor’s eyes softened and Michael hoped for a kind word, the start of a friendship. 

 

In a tiny garden in Lawton, two men, a vicar and a doctor, faced each other beside a wheezing pump. The vicar needed a friend, and the doctor needed things that he could not bear to think about. He had softened momentarily, but he could not let another vicar into his confidence in any way. Michael was witnessing the change, eyes that had softened grew steely once more. 

But the eyes stopped sparkling; the guard slammed back into place. “It’s too much for you seeing real life up close, smelling it. Best leave the visiting of the sick to me and get on writing your sermons and straightening the hymnbooks, parson.”

“He’s an old man who has outlived his family. He needed someone to wait with him until you could get here.”

“Are you saying I dallied?”

“Of course not. I’m saying that it is my task to give comfort where I can, and he needed some company while you did other very important and necessary things.”

The doctor scrubbed himself with the towel, his skin reddening from the harsh soap and an even harsher application of rough fabric. “I’ll not have you going into situations you can’t handle. You can get hurt or catch something, and you’re white as a ghost and rail thin now.”

“I’m quite sound, doctor.”

“This village won’t survive the loss of another young vicar. Stay in your study where you’ll live a good long life.”

Michael could see that the hands wringing out the towel were shaking, but he was turning over a new leaf here, not letting himself be trampled. “A long life of ease doesn’t attract me.”

“What does attract you, vicar?”

“Doing the will of the One who sent me.”

With a snort of derision, the doctor gathered up his bag and ruined shirt. “Get in the buggy, vicar,” he commanded and Michael obeyed, his stomach roiling again but not from the sick room.

When the doctor stopped at his home to fetch a clean shirt, Michael fled without another word. He spent the afternoon at the altar of their little church, begging God to take away the memories of that smooth tanned skin and the broad shoulders, but every time he stood, images of being pulled against that bare chest assaulted him so that he fell to his knees and started his prayers all over.


	2. The River at Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Graham watches from afar, Michael struggles with feelings that he considers sinful.

Graham shifted his feet. He had on a heavy coat and boots and still he was chilled by the night wind. Michael knelt on the stone floor of the church in only his shirt sleeves, not even the robe that he wore on Sundays. Graham had only allowed himself to pass around the church once an hour, but Michael’s face was contorted in agony, tears streaming from his closed eyes. He looked like the picture that hung in the foyer called ‘Gethsemane.’

More than anything, Graham wanted to hold him, to wrap his frail body in his own heavy coat and keep it there by folding his arms around the young man. Although Graham would never tell him so, he was doing quite well and the villagers were healing from the loss of Brother John. Graham’s heart was healing too, and he felt guilty. John would not see it as a betrayal, but somehow it was.

He had to be very sure of his feelings before he told Michael. Was it the thin young man with the fiery hair or was it the dark clothes and the collar and the role of the shepherd? Michael was beautiful and gentle and deserved to be loved wholly for himself. Until Graham could be sure, he would keep Michael at a distance, but that didn’t mean he would stay away. He could watch over him in the long dark nights where shadows were his friend.

Graham stood in the shadows of the copse at the river’s edge and watched as the new vicar sunk slowly into the cold depths. Had it not been early summer, the dip would have been suicide. But something in the solemnity of the measured steps held Graham back from stopping him. He was kneeling so that the water swirled around his shoulders. His voice ebbed and flowed with the current, but he seemed to be pleading for something. A night of prayers had not brought peace.

Then Graham caught whole sentences clear as day. “If it be your will, Father, let this cup pass from me. I will go away from the only home I’ve ever known to avoid this temptation. I am willing, dear Lord, to be separated from a woman who has been a mother to me moreso than my own.”

A little sob escaped and then he was quiet for a time, but the air vibrated with his struggle. The light was strengthening by the minute and Graham reluctantly stepped farther away. But Michael was almost shouting now, his words interspersed with great dragging sobs. 

“I want. Oh God, how I want. I’ll resist with your help, but I must have your help every hour. I am so weak and so lonely.” He bowed his head and the sobs rang off the trees.

Graham became aware of his own body when the trickle of tears down his own face brought him back. He leaned heavily against a tree, the scrape of rough bark a welcome grounding.

Then Michael scooped great handfuls of water over his head, gasping at the chill. “Into your hands, I commend my spirit. Show me the way.”

As he rose from the water with his arms outstretched, the sun broke over the trees and bathed the water in sparkling pink and gold lights. Michael’s ginger hair became a crown of flames, and his poor and ancient shirt was fully transparent. Graham’s fingers twitched at the sight of a chest covered in thick ginger hair and peach nipples stiffened by cold. He was thankful that he had stopped believing in God because he would have needed to stay in the river for days to wash away the sinful thoughts he was having. 

Then the doctor in him took over and he stepped briskly forward as if in the midst of his morning constitutional and wrapped Michael firmly in his own coat, still warm from his body. It was so much less than the comfort he wanted to provide, but likely so much more than he should have risked when his arms ached to pull the young man close.

“What in the devil do you think you’re doing, man? Don’t I have enough people sick with colds and fevers?” He was talking far too loudly and irreverently for the sacred scene that he had just witnessed and Michael jerked back, startled.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think about it causing trouble for you.”

“Doesn’t your own health matter?”

“Not so much really unless it makes trouble for someone else.”

“Well it would make trouble so have a care.”

They marched into the vicarage, Graham muttering to himself, wondering why vicars took Romans 12 so literally and made their bodies living sacrifices when they should keep their bodies as temples and…

“Get your wet things off and scrub hard with a towel. Don’t forget your hair. I’ll stir up the fire and put the kettle on. Maybe we can get you sorted before Mother comes over.”

Graham’s hands shook at his tasks. The purity and beauty of Michael’s face as he emerged from the water had shaken Graham to the core. But nothing could have prepared him for the further shock of Michael in a threadbare blue dressing gown, the modest V of the crossed lapels revealing a thick nest of ginger chest hair that begged to be touched.

Graham shoved his hands in his pockets but that didn’t get the tea served. Michael’s chattering teeth could be heard over the crackle of the fire and the bubble of the kettle. Their fingers brushed when Graham put the thick mug in Michael’s hand. He cradled the rough pottery, his fingers trembling.

Graham sat down on the chair opposite Michael, the fire almost unbearably hot with his body already aflame. “Your personal habits are none of my business as long as they do no harm, but you are hurting yourself with all night prayer vigils and ice water baths. Please take care of yourself. The village would not survive another loss.”

“And you, Graham?”

He froze. How much did Michael know? The relief he would feel at confessing would be life changing, but Michael’s upturned face was innocent and shy. He had no idea of the effect of his freckles and long eyelashes or the softness of his voice calling him ‘Graham’ for the first time.

“You lost your best friend. I know what that’s like. I’m very sorry.”

John’s face swam before Graham’s bleary eyes. A parade of images from his first weeks when he had shocked them all by being so friendly and active and on through their many conversations that never quite got to the point until John had died in his arms, finally knowing he was loved when it was too late. He couldn’t let that grief show, not if there was any chance that his feelings for Michael were real. Michael would have enough struggle without feeling he was competing with a dead man for Graham’s heart.

“Thank you. He was a good man.” Graham drained his mug, wincing at the taste. His mother was the tea maker. 

“If you ever need to talk about him, I’m told that I am a sympathetic listener. Sometimes when you lose a good friend, there’s no one that you can tell.”

Then Michael’s face fell. The young vicar had already loved and lost. Graham was the older man and more experienced although he felt clueless about this sort of relationship. He needed to be so careful with this young and gentle man, little more than a boy. One thing was certain, when he clarified his feelings for himself, he wasn’t going to waste any time. Whatever Michael could offer, Graham planned on taking.

“Thank you for your kind invitation. But I have many patients to see today. I’ll leave you to dry out. You’d best put a little more on before Mother sees you.”

Graham was carried through the morning by Michael’s adorable blush that ran up his neck to his ears and then across his freckled cheeks.


	3. Midsummer's Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graham discovers Michael's terrible secret.

Graham watched frozen as Michael swayed and then fell to the floor with a sickening thud. Then he was running up the aisle, ordering this one to fetch the stretcher from his buggy, another to get a cup of water and a wet cloth, but it still took a nightmare’s slow and straining speed to get him to Michael’s side.

There he was allowed to touch the pale, clammy face, to hold the thin wrist in his hand, and to run his fingers through soft ginger hair to check for a bump. Michael was so still that he had to reassure the frightened crowd that his pulse was strong and steady. When it was determined that no bones were broken, four stout men carried him to the vicarage, but he was already beginning to stir as they went to move him to the sofa in his study. Two of them got Michael under the arms and helped him up to his room at Graham’s instruction. 

“It’s just the heat, fellows. Tell the people that he’ll be fine after resting today. We’ll have him preach in shirt sleeves if we have another scorcher such as this. Collins, could you bring up a bucket of water straight from the pump? Get it as cold as you can. Thanks, mate.”

“I’m not going to puke again,” Michael said in a quavering voice. 

“That’s reassuring.”

Michael sat on the edge of the bed, the very picture of misery. His shoulders were hunched over and he was shaking with sudden jerks and gasps. As always, Graham wanted to hold him and say loving things that made the sadness leave his dark blue eyes, but while Michael had struggled for weeks with grieving for some lost and unrequited love, Graham had struggled with John's memory. They had both been fighting so hard that they barely acknowledged each other and now they were in the most intimate of circumstances without any warning.

Graham had the easy way as the doctor. Michael was his patient and the boundaries were clear, but Michael would be feeling vulnerable and conflicted. Graham thought that the attraction was mutual but those sad eyes didn’t give him nearly enough assurance. To shore himself up, he spoke too heartily for the narrow, spartanly furnished room. “There now, we’ll have you right in no time. Let’s get your kit off and bathe you with a cool cloth and you’ll soon be feeling yourself again.”

Michael clutched at his waistcoat like a virgin maiden. “Oh no, I’ll bathe myself. I’m fine now. Really.”

“I’ll decide who’s fine. I watched you fall.” Graham saw another black figure, falling before him, until he caught the small man up in his arms and carried him to the vicarage. “You gave your flock quite a scare and they will need me to look after you this afternoon for their peace of mind. You’ll have all kinds of treats tomorrow. I shall be coming by to sample the pies and cakes.”

While he spoke, Graham knelt and removed Michael’s shoes and socks, the least threatening of garments, but he still felt a piercing need to lift the slender foot and kiss the sole. His tanned hands looked nearly black against the soft, pale skin and warned him to take the utmost care.

Collins came back with the bucket. “I pumped ‘er til my arm were sore, Graham. That’s as cold as ye’ll get in this heat.”

“Thank you, Collins. I’m sure it’s fine. Now, tell everyone not to worry. The vicar will be alright by tomorrow in time to receive his goodies.”

“Aye, my missus is already planning a little cake for him.”

Then they were alone and although Graham’s hands trembled, he kept his voice firm. “Come on, lad. Off it comes for your own good.”

When Michael’s shaking fingers couldn’t manage the buttons, Graham took over and opened the shirt to find cuts and burns all over his chest and back. “My god, man. What have you done to yourself?”

“Mortify the flesh to save the soul,” Michael whispered.

Graham was furious. He should have sensed that a lonely and troubled boy would take to dramatic self punishment. Hadn’t he kept watch many nights while Michael prayed, sobbing and pleading before the picture of Christ in the small sanctuary? Michael didn’t resist as Graham removed his trousers and pushed up the leg of his underpants to show more wounds on his thighs. “Most of these are infected. You could go septic.”

“I’m sorry.” Michael’s jaw was clenched manfully, but tears rolled down his flushed cheeks.

“Lie down on your belly. I’ll tend to your back first.” Graham got what he needed out of his bag very slowly, trying to gather himself before he had to touch the tortured skin. He needed a god to pray to in this moment, but he wasn’t so fond of John’s god and Michael’s seemed even worse.

Wounds of the spirit were beyond him but he could tend the flesh. He began the familiar ritual of cleaning and in some cases, bandaging. He heard himself talking and listened. “I know that men of god need to do penance. But I ask you, would you want one of our sweet villagers to do to himself this way?”

A muffled ‘no’ and then the quiet crying continued. Michael might think he was hiding it with his arm across his face but Graham felt the humiliation buzzing through the torn flesh.

“Still, if you need to discipline yourself, you might choose something that does someone good. John used to--“ Would he ever be able to say that name without his voice breaking? “John believed that his penance could be things that helped the village but that were hated chores. He had a quick temper and the swearing that came with it.”

“Nobody ever speaks ill of him.”

“They wouldn’t. Death glorifies ordinary people.”

“I’ll never be as good as he was.”

Graham let the statement lie there. It was a time to pick his battles and that one was too big for this day. There was enough challenge in not kissing the scars that showed Michael had been punishing himself long before he came to Lawton. 

“People didn’t love him because he was good. They loved him for owning up to his faults. He always tattled on himself and then weeded gardens or dug a new privy trench or cleaned out a hen house. He was definitely punished but he didn’t harm himself, and instead of wallowing in his failures alone, he was working side by side with his people.”

“I could do that. Would they let me?”

“They already love you, Michael, just as you are. Who wouldn’t love you?” Then he had to go to his bag for more salve because his arms were shaking with his own discipline of not saying the words and not showing the words with caresses.

Michael was still but his body was no longer tense. Graham worked in silence, his small store of wisdom empty. Working on Michael’s chest and back presented more challenges, but Michael was in pain from these deeper wound. Graham was worried; some were deep and old, festering for most of the summer, it appeared. He knew in order to heal them that he was giving more pain. But somehow they bore it together.

Finally, the last burn on a wiry, muscular thigh had been treated and Michael’s skin had returned to as normal a temperature as could be expected under the circumstances. Graham would be submerging himself in the river for the night and perhaps several nights following. He knelt before Michael who was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Whatever you think you’ve done, you’ve paid enough. No more pain. This world has enough pain. Michael?”

Ginger lashes spiked with tears, navy blue eyes shining with adoration. “I’ll do penance as you’ve taught me.”

“Promise me?”

“I promise not to hurt myself.”

A squeeze of the shoulder would have been the appropriate level of comfort, but Michael’s shoulders were sore with wounds. Graham rested his hand on top of the bowed head, letting his fingers caress the damp curls. He excused the liberty by thinking of all that he wanted to do and had refrained from doing. “I’m going to have Mother make a poultice for you. Apply that to your chest tonight and I’ll change the dressing in the morning.”

He found himself in the hall, fighting tears like he hadn’t since the day he knew that John’s illness was fatal. Why was some love accepted and other love an abomination punishable by law? John’s god had much to answer for.


	4. Healing Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graham helps Michael to heal, body and soul.

Graham put the finishing touches on the final bandage of Michael’s deepest self inflicted wound. The edges of torn skin were finally closing; the infection had been purged from the depths, and there would be no need for Graham to tend it any longer. The rest of Michael’s injuries had been healed for weeks.

He was going to miss this quiet time of attending to Michael. But he had this night, with Michael sitting silently on the edge of his narrow bed. “So you’ve traded one pain for another, I see.”

Kneeling before the vicar in a strange charade of confession, Graham turned Michael’s hands over to reveal masses of blisters and strips of skin hanging from his raw palms and fingers. “When I suggested hard work as penance, I didn’t mean to this degree. The Widow Perkins didn’t need her garden dug in one day.”

“I didn’t mean to, Graham. It’s work where I could see results and I got carried away with finishing. But I kept my promise to you. I didn’t hurt myself on purpose.”

Michael’s cheeks were bright, and he was the picture of innocence. Graham’s heart turned over, and he focused on treating the hands he longed to hold. Since this was perhaps the last time they would be so close, he knew that he had to make one more try at getting Michael to talk about whatever was tormenting him.

He dabbed on salve, wincing harder at the sting than his patient. “Get some gloves and stop for water now and then, but you won’t be doing any work with these for at least a week.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you sorry enough to tell me what’s bothering you?”

Michael was instantly tense; the pretty flush leaving his cheeks, which grew white with something. Terror? “I can’t tell anyone.”

Graham waited awhile, hoping that the silence might draw his friend out. He bandaged the battered hands and when nothing broke the silence, he finally said, “There has to be someone you trust, lad, because you’ve been struggling with yourself since you came here. I’m very concerned.”

Michael shaped words with his lush pink lips, nearly gagging on the trapped thoughts, but he could not seem to get the sounds out.

“If you cannot tell me, you must tell someone. But would you allow me an observation?”

Michael nodded, staring at his bandaged fingers.

“You’ve fought a good fight, but it’s not a sin to love someone.”

“How did you--?” Michael broke off, realizing that he had confirmed a very good guess. He put his hands over his face and rocked back and forth, the picture of misery.

“Who was he?” As the shocking pronoun left Graham’s lips without judgment, Michael began to sob.

As dangerous as it was, Graham wrapped his arms around the boy, for boy he was in affairs of the heart. “Let it all out, lad. It’s been poisoning you.”

Michael fell to his knees as the sobs shook his body, and Graham gathered him up, one hand cradling his head, the other tight around his waist. When the grief was finally spent, he got his last two white cotton towels from his bag, one for Michael and one for himself.

Then huddled on the floor, he listened to a familiar tale of roommates, studying together, a friendship growing into more. His stomach hurt at what he knew was coming.

“And then I won a prize for poetry. It was an ode to the ideal man, and in our room that night, I told him it was for him. He hit me and called me terrible names and we never talked again.”

“He was afraid of his feelings.”

“Afraid of being tainted by a pervert, he said.”

“It’s no comfort, but it’s his loss. If he couldn’t see how pure and good that love was, first love, he missed something extraordinary.”

Michael blushed, the struggle to take a compliment all over his face. “He didn’t have to love me. All I wanted was to love him.”

“You deserve so much more.”

“You aren’t shunning me.”

“I’m not a hypocrite.” Graham felt a huge unbinding in his very core to have Michael know. His secret would be safe. He didn’t dare hope beyond that.

Michael’s eyes blazed. “I’m glad. I know it’s selfish, but to have someone else that understands. I feel as if I can go on now.”

Graham’s relief was short lived. If being near Michael had been difficult before, it was nothing to sharing a secret with him when he was still in love with some undeserving twit.


	5. Declaration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An exhausted Graham reveals his love for Michael.

Graham was exhausted as he walked slowly from the little shed where he had just curried and fed his poor horse. They had been at Oliver Wheeler’s little cottage for two days before the injuries from a sick cow had taken him. His petite and pregnant wife had fainted dead away and might lose the baby, but her mother had sent Graham home for the night.

His body had been tired before, but his soul was weary. He wanted to walk through the darkness to the vicarage where a light still burned and cry his heart out into Michael’s lap. He would be welcome too, but if he had to go one more day of talking around the big feelings he had, he was going to go as raving mad as the poor cow that killed Oliver.

Michael was happy and blossoming into a strong, confident spiritual leader. He was doing good work, and Graham could not ruin that for him with dramatic declarations. He had sworn to himself when John died that he would never harbor secret love again and that was exactly what he had been forced to do.

Michael stepped from the shadows and Graham thought it might be a hallucination. “I just came from the Wheelers. There isn’t much comfort to give her. She’ll have to move back with her mother.”

“I can’t decide if I want her to have that baby or not. Something to remember him by but a dependent when she’s just a schoolgirl herself.”

“She’s in agony because her last words to him were sharp, a row about money. I want to give my roses to people while they are still alive.”

Graham knew that he should go in the house right then. Michael was sensitive and still young enough to be shocked by death. He was going to say things in the shadows that he would regret later. But he hurt all over, and he wanted stolen moments with Michael in the middle of the night when no one would see or care.

“You’ve been such a wonderful friend to me, Graham. You saved me from so much pain and gave me a new start. I can never thank you enough for that.”

He put out his hand, but Graham reached up in the dark to brush the tears away that he knew were on the younger man’s cheeks. “I love you, Michael.”

Then Michael was wrapped around him. “I love you too. You are my best friend.”

He held tight, hoping the misunderstanding would keep them both safe for awhile longer. His words were true, and maybe that would ease the pressure for awhile until a voice said—“I’m in love with you, Michael. Have been since almost the beginning.”

Michael stiffened and stepped away. A string of whispered denials were jerked loose as he walked backwards over the rough ground. “You can’t do this. It was fine just as it was. Why did you have to spoil it?”

Graham sat down hard on the frost stiffened grass and then rolled over on his hands and knees to retch up bile and heartache


	6. In This Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Graham is past all hope, heaven intervenes.

”Michael, I know it’s awkward, but if I can’t be your friend any longer, I am still your doctor and responsible for your health the same as any other villager. You’re pale and drawn, and I can’t help but wonder if you are hurting yourself again.”

“And my word won’t do.” Michael was resigned.

“I’ll stand here in the doorway, no touching. The work of a minute. Then you can get on with your evening.”

Michael turned his back and began unbuttoning his shirt. Graham’s heart pounded and his mouth was dry and tasted metallic. As Michael removed his shirt and then his vest, the weight loss was revealed as far worse than Graham had feared. Ribs protruded and some muscle had been eroded, but there were no cuts or burns.

With a voice that grated, Graham said, “And your trousers.”

Michael’s movements were jerky with anger or embarrassment. With a swish the trousers were around Michael’s ankles and a blush crept across the parts of him not hidden by thick red hair.

“If you can pull the legs of your pants up, I’ll be able to see your thighs.”

There were a few scars but no new wounds. “And now your bum, just turn and pull them down. I won’t make you strip completely.”

Michael’s hands shook and the blush turned deep red, blotchy and pervasive as he showed pale white skin unmarred by new wounds.

Graham struggled for the correct words. “I’m very glad you aren’t injuring yourself, but your weight is of grave concern. Starving yourself is just a different form of self punishment. I’ll wager you’ve lost two stone when you couldn’t spare a pound. My god, man, you don’t eat or sleep and keep on with helping the villagers as if you’re well.”

“I have to keep busy or I’ll go mad.”

“If I could take it back, I would. I never intended to tell you. It burst out of me in a weak moment and you are paying the price. Seems I’ll have to leave the village so that you can have some peace.”

“No!”

“I won’t watch you die of starvation. It’s probably what I deserve but I can’t do it.”

“If I have a little more time, I’ll find a way through. I need time to think and to pray and it will get better, you’ll see.”

“It’s amazing you’ve made it this far. Are you eating anything at all?”

“I don’t mean to deprive myself, Graham, I swear it. I try to eat but I’m not hungry. The food sticks in my throat.” He was so young and small standing in the middle of the room trying to get his trousers back up, his hair mussed with that one curl drooping down over his forehead.

Then Graham’s mind cleared and he spoke as an older, wiser man and not as a spurned lover. “You’re trying to sort out your whole life before you live it, lad. That always comes to madness. ‘Sufficient unto the day is the trouble thereof,’ I think your Bible says.”

“The book of Matthew, chapter six.”

“And somewhere around in the gospels, he also said that the truth will set you free. So what is required of you in this day, this moment, but to walk across this room and speak the truth?”

He saw Michael start to tremble and the vest dropped from his grasp. He saw Michael walking toward him, palms outward, head down. But he never expected the words that came so loudly in spite of the broken voice as if the long weeks of hurt on both sides had never happened, and they were standing on the grass in the moonlight. “I’m in love with you too, Graham.”

Graham didn’t mean to wait; he was not about retribution at all. But he had dreamed about this moment and then felt the dream die inside him. It could not be as simple as it suddenly was. Then he was folding Michael against his chest and wrapping his arms around the boy’s whippet thin body, a body wracked with tremors that shook them both.

He rocked him, patting the bare skin of Michael’s scarred back lightly. He held a treasure so fragile.

Michael’s voice was muffled by his shirt front which diminished the bravado. “I guess I’m going to hell.”

“You’ve had your hell for months now. You’ve paid long enough.”

With a great sigh, Michael surrendered to his feelings completely and sagged against Graham who squeezed him even tighter. “What happens to us now?”

Even in Graham’s arms, he was still worrying.

“You put on your night clothes and dressing gown, and I go build up the fire in your study and cobble together some kind of supper for you.”

“What is required for this hour?”

“That’s right. And I’m requiring you to eat something. I think you’ll find that lump in your throat is gone.”

Graham built a shockingly large fire in the study. There weren’t going to be any half measures for his lad. He pulled the couch close to the blaze. Michael came in, the dressing gown capacious over his wasted frame. Graham tucked him up in a blanket and went to the pantry in search of food. 

@@@@@@@@

On the study couch beside the fire, Michael’s head lay heavy on Graham’s shoulder until finally Graham moved him to a pillow on his lap. He stayed awake all night long, thankful to finally have his boy in his arms. Michael’s hell was over, and Graham’s heaven had begun.

When the clock struck five, he eased himself out from under Michael’s sweet body, heavy with sleep.

“Graham, did you stay the night?”

“I needed to make sure you finally rested.”

“Like a stone.”

“You’ve got awhile longer before Mother comes over to start your breakfast. I’ll build up the fire before I go.”

Graham stirred the coals and added wood until the room was toasty. Michael was already dozing. Graham kissed his forehead. “Sleep well, sweetheart,” he whispered.

Out in the brisk air, his lungs contracted painfully and he hurried toward home. With his mind on how beautiful Michael’s flushed face had been in sleep, he was startled out of his wits by a figure stepping from the shadows of the hedge.

“Hello, Graham,” Sherman Lock said with a sneer.

Graham had borne the use of his Christian name as one of the lesser evils of disrespect from the village brat. Truth be told, he’d been insufferable since his advances to Graham had been gently rebuffed.

“Is the vicar ill?”

“Yes, he’s overdone again, working too hard for the village and not eating or sleeping properly.”

“I’m sure your presence the whole night through was a great comfort to him, Graham.”


	7. The Inquiry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherman Lock gets his revenge by sending a letter to the bishop which prompts an inquiry into Michael and Graham's relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for Faye who spoke the right word at the right time.

Sherman Lock’s revenge had been a letter to the bishop who had come immediately for an inquiry. With the village too small to support an inn, the bishop had stayed at the vicarage, taking one room for himself and the other for his secretary, a wan young man with a jet black forelock. Michael hated the portly bishop who resembled Henry the Eighth, and he hated his sallow companion. Hate was easier than the choking fear which left him nauseated and faint.

He didn’t mind for himself but the bishop was interrogating his people, and it frightened them. For hours, Michael sat in the church with his heart pounding in his throat as each member of the parish was called away from their daily work to make a statement which the vampiric secretary dutifully recorded on a sheaf of creamy paper.

“This is not a court of law,” Bishop Sullivan had explained. “It is an investigation into the character of Michael Hume and his practices as your spiritual leader.”

David Tinsley had come first, having little else to occupy himself. “Who decides if his character passes muster? I thought the good Lord did that.”

“He will face the judgment day, but I will decide if he is suitable for this parish.”

“I can’t speak for naught but myself, but he always treated me square. Brand new he was when I had that infected cut on my leg. Here let me show you.” Tinsley hiked up his pant leg to display a jagged red line that ran down the pasty length of his shin. “Puked like a dog in my yard later, but he sat with me. No, that’s not right. He cleaned, the whole time. Scrubbed up dishes that was furry with mold and swept the kitchen floor of slut’s wool. Good man. He puts feet to his prayers.”

The Bishop dabbed at his nose with a handkerchief. “And how do you find his sermons?”

“I come to church and here they be.”

James Anderson’s mouth pursed in a moue of distaste at the poor grammar, the humor completely beyond him.

“What I meant to say was, are his sermons inspiring?”

“I’m inspired to sleep if it’s a hot day. Never could abide being indoors unless I was asleep or sick. Now can I ask questions of you?”

“I can’t give assurance that I will answer them, but you may ask.”

“What’s he accused of? And who is his accuser?”

“The source of our information is confidential but the concern, not a charge, mind you, but a line of inquiry is into the nature of the relationship between Dr. Graham Lester and your vicar.”

“That will be Sherman Lock’s sick mind come up with something such as that. He sees in others what he is himself. The doctor was nothing but kind to the boy, giving him books to learn and answering his questions. Lock followed the sawbones around like a moonstruck pup. We all seen it.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny my source.”

“You don’t have to. I’m a fair judge of human behavior. He can’t stand it that the doctor didn’t share his tender feelings. Graham was a boy here same as Sherman is now. He got his schooling and came back here to help. Brought a sweet little wife with him and buried her and a child in that churchyard a year later. You go dig up dirt in a city that’s got some."

Having said his piece, Tinsley clapped his hat back on and left the church with a rolling limp and without benefit of the Bishop’s blessing or dismissal. 

On it went as they combed the parish roster and sent for the members one at a time. Graham came and sat in the back for a few minutes but would not look at Michael. He closed his eyes as the dizziness gathered round him; it would not do to faint now when his manhood was already in question. It was Graham’s village, his life time home. Michael would have to go just when he had been feeling safe and loved.

The questioning dragged on as the Bishop took long breaks for lunch and did not work past five. He was not an early riser either. Michael sat obediently at table with them as Mrs. Lester served with the help of a school girl. All the women of the village counted it an honor to feed the important visitors. He had no place to go and no one to turn to. Anderson was lurking in the shadows at all times and Mrs. Lester could do little more than pat Michael’s hand and try to get him to take some broth or a bit of bread.

He ached with loneliness, the short bit of happiness that he’d shared with Graham made the isolation more painful. The villagers that had seemed to care were now whispering and staring. Mrs. Lester was Graham’s mother, not his. The most ironic bit was that they hadn’t done anything questionable. Graham had hugged him and sometimes put his arm around him; they had clasped hands in farewell. He was on trial for his actions when his heart was where the sin lay.

Punishment would have been a comfort but he had made a promise to Graham that he wouldn’t resort to it. Without the physical labor he had engaged in more and more around the village, his body was complaining of the idleness and needing an outlet. He would have walked through the night, but he was being closely watched and any absence would be interpreted as a tryst.

With both bedrooms and the study appropriated by the unwelcome guests, Michael was assigned to the couch in the parlor. Memories of the night Graham had held him while he slept tormented him in his insomnia. He didn’t dare sleep for fear of crying out from a nightmare and revealing all.

On the evening of the second day, Mrs. Lester patted his shoulder at the end of dinner. “Look to the scriptures for guidance, Vicar. It’s what you’ve taught me to do.”

She handed him a Bible from the kitchen shelf where the accounts were kept. He hadn’t seen it before. She seldom called him Vicar anymore either. After the house was quiet and he had allowed himself a peek at the square of light that was Graham’s bedroom, he paged through the small Bible. A scrap of paper fluttered down with the reference John 16:16. It would have to be from the book of John. A part of the verse had been marked very faintly in pencil. “In a little while and ye shall see not see me; and again a little while, and ye shall see me.”

He lay with the Bible on his chest, his hand resting on the promise. He would see Graham again even if it were only for goodbye.

Another day of testimonies as Michael grew weaker from lack of food or sleep. Paul Collins came as summoned, shirt flapping where he had hastily pulled it on. He scrubbed at his filthy chest with a soiled handkerchief. “What’s all this nonsense, sir? I’ve got crops in the field and I’ll wager that the church is counting on the sale of those crops for my tithe. Storm coming tomorrow and unless you gentleman would care to lend a hand, I’d like to keep this short.”

“Justice cannot be rushed, Mr. Collins.”

“We’ve only so much food to carry us through the winter, Bishop, and you’ve made quite a dent in it so far. Brother Michael, he eats like a bird and works alongside me in the field at least once a week. If I had my druthers, I know which man of the cloth I’d send away and which I’d keep.”

Anderson gave the farmer a dirty look on behalf of his employer. Collins was unimpressed.

“I’ll save us both some time. The Lock boy never told a truth in all his life and here is honest people losing their daily bread over it. His hands are lily white from reading books all day but his soul is black as pitch. What of it if the doctor takes his meals at the vicarage? His mother is cooking there. And why should she go home and make supper when she already made one for Michael? Anything she cooks at home goes in the warmer half the time and dries up because Graham is out delivering babies or calves of an evening or sitting with some sickness , real or imagined. They’s hard workers both and this witch hunt is a mess of nonsense. Who else is an educated man going to talk to but one such as himself?” Collins marched out of the church, stripping his shirt off as he went.

Michael couldn’t hear the defense of himself, only that the inquiry had cost his charges time and money and food. On the second evening, Mrs. Lester nodded at the Bible on the shelf and winked. The wait until the house was quiet stretched interminably. The slip of paper for Joshua 1:9 was at the page where the faint pencil markings underlined the words, “Have I not commanded thee? Be strong and of good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed.” He was able to sleep for a few hours. Graham’s brown eyes appeared in his dreams giving him peace.

They finished an hour after lunch on the third day and Michael felt a sliver of hope that the end was near whatever it might be. But the young widow Wheeler slipped into the church, a fetching picture in her Sunday best even if she was ‘great with child.’ “Begging your pardon, your honor,” she said, dropping a curtsy. “I wish to say my piece about the vicar.”

They could hear her knees knocking together under her pink skirt. “Be seated, my dear.”

“I wanted to say that the Vicar and Mr. Lester are a good pair.”

“And what do you mean by that?” Michael could see the bishop salivating.

“They are a matched team and pull together when any of us in the village are sick or hurt. The doctor mends our body, the vicar mends our soul. We know they will both come to help and if somebody sees wrong in that, it’s a sick mind beyond anybody’s help.”

She was tearing her handkerchief to ribbons with her nerves from the first public speech she had given in her life. “When my Oliver passed--"

“Oliver Wheeler?” Anderson asked, consulting a list. 

She nodded, shoulders shaking. “Mr. Lester, he had tears in his eyes when he come to tell me that the poor cow had done a deadly injury to my husband. Knowing it was no use, he could have gone to his bed but he stayed the whole night through. The vicar was there as much as he could be; Fleur Harkins died of consumption the same day.”

“I’ve lost Oliver and I may lose this baby. Please don’t take the only comfort we have; I can’t bear it.”  
“There now. If we should find that Reverend Hume is not the right man for this parish, we will find a suitable replacement. Michael, see her out, won’t you?”

“Come along, Katie. Your mother will be worried.” He walked her home, slowing his steps to her waddling pace. Usually, he would have alerted Graham that the girl had been upset so that she could be examined. The whole village saw the coming baby as theirs to watch over.

Back in the sanctuary, the Bishop and Anderson were in shirt sleeves at the large table used for communion. Stacks of paper were everywhere. Anderson had taken copious notes, delighting in every hint of scandal, seeing innuendo in the most innocent of comments. They waved him away, saying they had a report to write.

Mrs. Lester gave him tea and had him shell peas and chop things for the evening meal. “Surely they’ll go on the last train. They’ve done nothing but complain about the primitive conditions. Why would they stay?”  
His hands shook and pea pods dropped into the bowl with the shelled ones. “I may be the one going on the last train.”

“Here now, none of that. You’ve made yourself sick with worry again just when you had roses in your cheeks. Come to me.” She held him and whispered, “He misses you so but not much longer.”

How much did she know? He kept his own counsel. After a leisurely dinner, the bishop announced that they would stay one more night and give the results of their findings in the morning. Mrs. Lester rolled her eyes as she cleared the plates. Michael felt it was past his endurance, and there was no Bible verse to cheer him since Mrs. Lester had been sure they would leave. The decision had already been made so he stood at the window, watching until Graham blew out the lamp.

After a sizable breakfast, the bishop called Michael into his own study to give him the verdict. Anderson was not present. “Your villagers are quite loyal, Michael. And innocent as lambs. You’ll have to use more discretion in future.”

“But we haven’t—-"

“Spare me explanations. I can tell by your blushes that you are yet a virgin but as virile as the doctor is, you won’t be for long. Tell him that you must use the utmost discretion because I won’t be able to silence a second accusation.”

“Now, I’d like to interview Sherman privately. We need further statements about the impetus for his letter. He is clearly very troubled.”

“He lost his father at a critical age, and his mother has indulged him terribly.”

“He also suffers from the same affliction as all of the men presently in this vicarage and one delectable doctor. I have need of beauty and intelligence for my personal staff. Anderson will not be content as a mere secretary much longer, and I’d like to have his replacement already in my employ. I will test the Lock boy and if he seems worthy, I shall claim him within the month. His mother will be pleased and you will have less vituperation with which to cope.”

Michael shivered at all that such an offer would entail, but Sherman would be far happier in the city and would make his own choices about how to obtain favor and power. Nearly there. He stood in front of the desk and waited for the Bishop’s dismissal.

“We will have our formal goodbye at the carriage. It’s important for the parish to see goodwill between us. But, Michael, if your doctor should ever tire of you once you are no longer fresh, I could find a place for you on my staff. No need to hide your light under a bushel.” The Bishop reached up to shake Michael’s hand but once they unclasped their hands, the Bishop’s brushed lightly across the fly of Michael’s trousers. “The country has restored your health in every way. I’ve underestimated the effects of country air. Lovely.”

Sweat ran down his back and he was thankful for an empty stomach as a dry heave could be hidden. Now pardoned, he changed into his oldest clothes and ran to help Collins bring in his crop. As the day passed, he knew that the Bishop was going to take the entire day, getting as many meals as possible. He also knew the man would stay until he had convinced Mrs. Lock to part with her only treasure. They sent word an hour before the last train. The interruption was unwelcome because the clouds were gathering and the last of the field was still standing. “I’ll be back,” he promised Collins and ran through the thickening air to make his goodbyes.

The Bishop had stayed for tea, his substantial lunch insufficient. “Your doctor is with the sweet young woman we met yesterday afternoon. She is in labor.”

“Katie? But it’s too early. She has at least another month.”

“I suppose it was the strain of the inquiry but Mrs. Lester told me that she’s had difficulties from the outset. It’s in God’s hands as are you, Michael. Go and sin no more.” He winked lasciviously and boarded the carriage, the springs sagging with his bulk. Sherman Lock had the audacity to turn and wave as the carriage took him away to a world of depravity.

The last of the wheat was in the wagon just as the rain came, and the wagon was in the barn before the hail. He was soaked to the skin, his shirt transparent, and since he couldn’t get any wetter, he walked to the Wheeler’s. But her mother shooed him away. “There’s naught you can do here, but we would covet your prayers, Vicar.”

He sat in the church without lamp or candles. If they needed him, they would find him. Lightening lit the stained glass now and then. He prayed for Katie until Graham came for him.

“A strapping boy. For all our worry, he’s healthy as can be and early was best or he’d have split her in two.”

They stood in the dark with the altar between them. Michael had nodded, not trusting his voice. He thought he might cry out. The Bishop’s words had poisoned his mind, and the Bishop’s touch was still on him. 

“Come on home, lad. Mother will be waiting and feed us though it be after midnight.”

As he had done for four days past, he obeyed. Mrs. Lester clucked over him, putting him in one of Graham’s dry shirts although it swam on him. He managed to eat a little and then could tell them. “The inquiry showed no wrongdoing. My assignment remains the same. Sherman Lock may come back to visit, but he won’t make further trouble.”

Graham poured a small glass of brandy for each of them in celebration. It burned Michael’s throat and Mrs. Lester clapped him on the back. “I’ll be going up now. You stay what’s left of the night here, Michael. That storm is not through.”

“Come into the surgery with me. I need to clean my instruments and restock my bag.”

“Can I do anything?”

“Watch the kettle and bring it to me when it boils.”

Michael trudged to the surgery with the boiling water, his legs leaden. He perched on a stool and tried to keep his eyes on Graham’s strong hands as they brought order and prepared the supplies for the next patient. No matter how exhausted he was, Graham had to clean his instruments and restock his bag. A summons could come at any time, and there was no one else to go.

“What did the bishop really say? You’ve been painfully quiet and haven’t looked me in the eye any time in the past hour.”

He tried to keep his voice even. “He said that we had to be more careful because next time he wouldn’t help us."

“Michael, I’m too weary to ferret it out of you one sentence at a time.”

He was having to move each word past the great lump in his throat but if Graham needed told quickly, he would do so. “He told me that he had plans for Sherman Lock because his personal staff were all, were all like, like us and that there was a place for me if you ever, that is, if I ever needed a place. But he said he wanted beauty and intelligence around him so I’m not sure where I would fit.”

“Michael, do not put yourself down. So after he told you of his wicked designs on Sherman and propositioned you, what did he do?”

“That was all. I’ve been in the fields with Collins until they came for me. He winked at me as he was getting in the carriage but by then it was nearly over.”

Graham wiped his hands on a towel and brought a lamp close to Michael’s face. He squinted in the bright light as Graham looked on him with a doctor’s keen eye. “Best tell it all. You know what a festering wound does by now.”

“He said that he could tell I was fresh but if after you’d used me up, you no longer wanted me, he would take me and he brushed his hand across my fly and Graham, is it like that with us? Something bawdy, a big joke?”

His voice cracked but he couldn’t stop. “He gave me permission for what I want more than anything in this world but he made it seem dirty and now I can’t stop feeling his hand on me and if I want your hand there, does it make me a pervert? Is my innocence funny to you? Will you get tired of me? Because I’d rather stop now than be alone again. I’ve had four days alone and almost run mad with it and--"

His chest heaved and he shuddered all over, chilled to the bone as Graham led him into the study where shadows hid them from all but each other. Graham hadn’t spoken yet, but he sat on the old swaybacked couch and pulled Michael down onto his lap. “There now, lad. It’s all over. Give it to me.”

At first Michael just panted. The air was heavy with the gathering of another storm, and he couldn’t get his breath. Graham stroked his back until he sunk down into the embrace. Burying his face in Graham’s neck, he sobbed himself hoarse as the tears ran down onto Graham’s chest.

After he was weak and spent, he tried to move away but Graham kept him there easily with an arm about his waist. Graham always had a clean handkerchief which was sorely needed. “Can you listen now?”

“I think so.”

“First of all, if that bloody bastard ever lays a hand on you again, I will reinstate crucifixion as a fitting punishment but I’ll add castration to it. No one has the right to touch you. Secondly, you are not a pervert. I’ve never known anyone with a kinder, purer heart. I will never grow tired of you and for now, your innocence is quite safe because I am mortally exhausted.”

He scrambled off Graham’s lap just as a boom of thunder shook the cottage. The storm had moved closer while he wept. Graham went to the cupboard for blankets and made a pallet on the floor.

“You go on up now.” He reached for Graham’s hand, shyly curling his fingers in the wide palm.

Graham brushed his fringe back and kissed him on the forehead. He had to press his lips to Michael’s ear to be heard above the storm. “I’ll be right here beside my beautiful boy.”

Chaste as children, they fell asleep holding hands as the thunder crashed around them.


End file.
